I sincerely regret to inform you…-Meditation of 2073521
by Dunedain789
Summary: Number us. Name us. 2073521. Easier to give us all serial numbers; like the stuff in a supermarket. Fitting - we all have an expiry date. Our names are printed on them under the serial number. They don't need our names. It's for our own sake, to keep us from forgetting ourselves. Give us a reminder of who were. Keep us sane. Try to.


**Hello everyone!**

**This is an attempt at a new style of writing. It would be extremely helpful if readers could review so I can improve (not to mention you'd be helping the ego of a poor writer)! Hope you enjoy and please don't forget to review!**

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My fingers curl around the mug of just-made UHT-splashed tea. The scathing liquid scalds my palms and fingers through the plastic, taking longer to burn the sensitive skin hidden under trigger calluses. A moth-eaten, coffee-stained damp couch was the only 'comfortable' seat worth sitting on in the office. Worn cushions give under my weight, crushing further when I draw my legs up to my chest. Gotta keep the warmth from escaping somehow…

A small knock on the door. "Come in," I answer automatically, immediately regretting my invitation to the unknown person.

"Sir?"

Bloody voice. I knew it well. It had been the one to tell me I had to write more 'I sincerely regret to inform you…' letters. Mothers and wives would weep over them. Scream in agony or just stare blankly, their hearts ripped in two. The usual comfort and distraction of collecting the body in a polished coffin - flag and all - was gone too, their loved ones left rotting where they fell, eaten by rabid dogs and cats; left in the sun to stink and draw flies-

The cushion next to me gives way under his weight and is followed by the groan of rusting springs in the ancient couch. A quick glance at him shows he's thinking the same thing, his eyes drawn to the printed, ready-to-fold-and-post letters. His Adam's apple bobs when he swallows back a bad taste and moves his gaze back to me.

"What do you want Riley?" The question is biting and full of annoyance. The plan had been to wallow in self-pity with the pathetic excuse for tea I had in my hands. Even the tealeaves tasted like sand and crushed scorpion- like everything else around here.

"Came by to chat," is the cool reply. A noncommittal grunt is the only response he gets and he seems annoyed, "A lot of people find talking helps."

"A lot of people are idiots. I'll talk when I bloody want to talk."

"Hmph," one of his hands moves to the scarred, crumbling table next to the couch.

"Don't."

"I'm curious," his fingers curl around the dog tag there. Number us. Name us.

2073521. Easier to give us all serial numbers; like the stuff in a supermarket. Fitting - we all have an expiry date. Our names are printed on them under the serial number. They don't need our names. It's for our own sake, to keep us from forgetting ourselves. Give us a reminder of who _were_. Keep us sane. Try to.

"RC? Roman Catholic?"

"Was easier than writing 'Don't give a fuck'," I reply coldly.

"You don't believe?"

"Why should I? After everything, why should the idea of an all knowing, all controlling god give me comfort?"

"Why not write 'atheist'?"

"Mum'd be disappointed." I can see the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.

"Never thought about you having a mother," his tone drops back to seriousness, "don't you think she'd be disappointed that you enlisted in a business where you earn a living by killing?"  
"Probably. But being an atheist'd be the icing I'd rather she didn't get a taste of."

I try hard not to think of Mum. Not to think of her expression when I'd told her I'd joined up with the 3rd parachute regiment. She'd been around her own father long enough to know what that career path did to you if you went deep enough. Got good enough. Brought up for cannon fodder she'd cried. I'd thought she'd have been proud when I told her. It broke my heart that I'd disappointed her.

I shake myself, fighting an upwelling of tears. What I needed was glass of scotch. Another drink-induced early night.

I can feel _him_ watching me closely as if expecting me to crack.

"Piss off Riley. I told you, I'll talk when I'm bloody ready to."

He sighs, stands and pauses at the door. "What if you snap before you're ready to talk?" I can hear the concern in his voice and meet his gaze. His dirty blonde hair has gouge marks where he's been rubbing his fingers through it, a habit when he's worried. I wonder how many times he'd rubbed his fingers through it before he'd finally given in and came to see me. I try a reassuring smile and wonder if it looks as artificial as it feels.

"Promise to talk before I snap."

He nods a little, not convinced but unable to press the issue anymore. "Night John," he places the tags gently on the table and leaves.

I stare at the opposite wall, stained brown with years of fly shit and perishing sunshine until the tea in my hands goes stone cold. I stand and throw the un-drunk slop down the sink and substitute it with a large mug of scotch instead, taking a large swig from the bottle to start me off.

Who said alcohol didn't help?

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**ANGST! **

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